Human error
by Emerald.Vert
Summary: "It's your heart, do not let it rule your mind. I've always believed love is a risky weakness." AU. A secret of the past will finally see the light of day and will undoubtedly change the lives of not only Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. AU. Crossover. Translation of my own story
1. Chapter 1

**N/A** : I would like thank my lovely and ever patient beta: **brainlesssepticlock**. All mistakes are mine.

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 **HL / WG - SH / JW**

After weeks spent in a single, compact cell in psychiatric hospital for dangerous mentally ill criminals, Will still hadn't regained mental clarity, though the doctors concluded that his encephalitis was cured for good. His left arm was wounded painfully once again. Even people whom he considered friends visited him and called him a monster and looked at him with disgust. It didn't really bring him any consolation. Nobody believed his words which he had repeated stubbornly over and over. In fact, he could no longer discern what was truth and what was delusion with his overtired, dazed mind battling with a persistent fever and with drugs that were changed every few days. Despite this, his testimony remained the same.

It was probably considered as a sign of rebellion and the number of visitors quickly reduced to a handful. Chilton began several hours of torture, making a slow and agonizing vivisection of his mind and called it a therapy session. Will tried to fight the as viciously as he could. He was not going to admit it. He was not a killer. Sure, he had the mind of a criminal, but he was not one.

Hannibal Lecter had played it perfectly. Will had to give him that. Of course he was mad at himself that did not stop the development of events and that he had become an obedient puppet in Ripper's hands. The murderer and cannibal. The good doctor Hannibal Lecter. And it was all Will's fault. He had recklessly allowed himself to let Hannibal in.

In retrospect, he saw what had previously eluded him. What had escaped others so far. If anyone was interested in the truth, they did not hear what he had to say. Very effectively silencing him, calling him a disappointment, a monster and a liar. Even though he knew that nothing had reached them, he was still trying to fight as best he could. However quickly, they had deprived him of the best possible weapons and ammunition at the same time, his mind. Under the pretext of the necessary psychiatric treatment prescribed by Chilton, he was given him a number of highly potent drugs and again under the its influence, he was losing time. He was losing himself. It was again like a dark nightmare. Pain and fear. Panic. Nothingness.

The only person who seemed to listen without condemning him and mixing with the mud was, surprisingly, Hannibal Lecter himself. Chilton, with almost perverse pleasure, had recorded and replayed their exchanges in the course of daily therapy, trying to break him. If not for medication in high doses, regular visits of the true murderer and his satisfied, predatory smile as he stood in front of a former FBI special agent, Will would have certainly had many acute anxiety attacks.

Perhaps it had been his goal from the beginning? To build a thick wall around Will's mind, his thoughts, until no one but Hannibal could get to him.

If only he had some false consolation in this nightmare.

Because it was the truth, although Will had tried to prevent this. Only Lecter was able to freely move around the less and less protected area of his mind. Chiton charged ruthlessly brutal and massive attacks, regardless of the consequences, and called this a therapy session.

In his unpleasant dreams he saw a deer with raven feathers. And when he did not sleep, the dull clatter of hooves were incredible, haunting him, still echoing in his ears. The deer walked slowly, majestically watching him from a distance, as if mocking him. Or perhaps taking pity on him.

Even he did not know. He could not interpret the meaning of his delusions. Because it was a hallucination, right?

"I do not think it's necessary, Agent Crawford. I'm taking him. From now on I decide about his possible further treatment. Please open the cell."

"It's a dangerous serial killer and cannibalistic-"

"- psychopath? Quite an interesting idea, Dr. Chilton. I see here a man who at the present time would admit everything, judging by the dangerously high doses of various specifics, which you had given him during the last few days. Some of them are not allowed to use even in institutions such as yours, if I remember well."

Chilton probably smiled wryly, improving the position of inherent grace.

He could almost hear the voice of a psychiatrist who had said, "he's plain degenerate, this is the only way you can tame him."

Will sat on his bunk, listening to this surprising conversation, looking at the sink. Without taking his eyes from it, he forced his mind to grasp the extraordinary situation. Someone wanted to free him from this hell. Someone who does not go into discussions with Jack and wasn't in any way awed by his explosive, dominant personality. Someone who ignored the biting and little professional attention Chilton represented, who hit error after error in his method of treatment of his patients and the security procedures and regulations against escaping, or protecting patients against possible aggression of staff, not to mention highly unprofessional behaviour of the guards and nurses to their dangerous charges.

' _I just wonder what he wants in return._ He had not much to offer. And what he had probably not of anyone's interests anymore. Anyone besides one person. And that person wasn't interested in him anymore.

Will's dazed mind was not focused on that thought, just idly hearing processing information. Outside of his cell, Jack blurted out a bunch of angry vulgarities, hitting his fist into the wall for effect. Graham shuddered uncontrollably when he registered a rasp of bars and someone came near him. The hooves were getting closer.

"Clothes," a male voice demanded, and after a few moments in the hands of the prisoner were neatly folded clothing. Soft and very different from the dress which he now wore. A pair of shoes were on the floor. "Change your clothes."

Will, not paying attention to the new, lively discussion on the other side of the bars, instinctively did as instructed. Refusal to obey orders generally ended badly for him. The fresh scent of clean material brought back distant memories. Suddenly he was torn from them. Someone stood in front of him and hands gently grasped his trembling fingers when he was not able to fasten the tiny buttons on the shirt, relieving him of the task. He did not expect to be treated so gently. No one had cared for such a long time. Sometimes it seemed to him that Hannibal was the first who had agreed to teach him that both feeling and looking at another person doesn't have to be a factor in the dispersion, nor more threatening. Well... in this last point, however, he was very much mistaken. The sight and touch of Dr. Lecter left him just passing by in ruins and ashes.

He had to get used to neutral but satisfied rough guards and nurses who did not pay attention to whether they had caused him additional pain. And sometimes they simply enjoyed his suffering and tried to do everything to make him scream. And he could feel their rising anger as he endured the pain in silence.

 _His damn empathy!_

"Wait the minute... what is this?" The man suddenly snapped, interrupting a fierce debate. He moved his hands, revealing deep abrasions on Will's wrists. He let out a loud, angry sigh and when he spoke again, clearly inhibited before the explosion. "Mycroft, hurry up or I will not vouch for myself!"

Mycroft?

A familiar name, but Will had no idea where or when he had heard it before. He staggered to his feet, looking at a few people in front of his cell. Jack, Chilton nervously tapping his cane, two guards and a nurse - without which Chilton wouldn't have approached recently due to his patients - and three strangers. A woman, and a man with an umbrella who patiently repeated endlessly how incompetent Frederick and Crawford were. The second man was standing next to him in his cell, ready to support him, or even catch him if his legs did not obey him.

Graham forced himself to not to withdraw into his mind weakened by recent events, although he felt the need to. He had to be fully aware of how much he would be given. He did not know who these people were, and even if they helped him now, he did not really want to believe that they were doing this simply out of the goodness of their heart. Something was lurking behind their exterior motives. He was convinced of this, not excluding the fact that Hannibal would not like losing his favourite source of entertainment.

It was a strange feeling, wearing ordinary clothes again, and not the uncomfortable prison uniform.

"Move, Graham," commanded one of the guards, his hand on a stun gun. Will sighed quietly and walked down the narrow corridor. Keeping his eyes down, he would feel anger from Jack who gesticulated wildly pointing at him.

Louder bits of spoken words reached his ears, but he did not pay special attention to it. He focused on getting where they wanted him to go. He walked slowly, every now and then hearing a reminder, a rough command. The guards and nurse around him were effectively depriving him of the opportunity to get support from anyone.

They thought he was posing a threat. On the contrary - he was trying to prevent it.

 **HL / WG - SH / JW**

John was furious of himself. Mycroft too, but it was definitely anger toward himself burning him from the inside. He grinded his teeth, glancing at the young man sitting next to the extensive limousine service which was to haul them to the airport.

He could not understand why Mycroft decided to help someone who was related to him by blood - to a lesser or greater extent - only now. He understood that Will could be hard to find, but for the eldest of the Holmes brothers, it shouldn't have been a problem at all. John knew him too well to not suspect that he had been watching Graham for a long time.

It was impossible to break free from the Holmes brothers. He knew this from personal experience. He breathed deeply and closed his eyes for a moment. Until now, he could not collect his thoughts. The explanation about this whole situation was strange. Both Mycroft and Sherlock didn't speak at all about the alleged affair of their mother. He did not want to go into it and seek the truth. Mycroft probably made sure that everything was a black hole or muddy swamp, where you could drown without approaching even an iota of specific answers.

His practiced eye watched the man's absent spirit, and he knew that the coming weeks would not be easy for him. He had read the papers about that hellish place and he shuddered at the thought of what wasn't mentioned in them. He felt that he could explode with rage and helplessness. He concentrated his attention on the dormant Graham. A cursory observation allowed him to draw some conclusions.

He was not such an expert like Sherlock and Mycroft. They could easily tell a whole story based on a single, seemingly insignificant detail. It took them barely a gesture or an element to create the whole picture. He took him many, but he didn't have to worry. The world could lift only one Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes.

And now William Graham was joining them. Undoubtedly, that was to remain his name. If he indeed belonged to the family, and this in no way undermined, this young man was stubborn and proud.

"Your presence prevented an unpleasant international incident. Thank you, John."

Dr. Watson shook his head slightly. Mycroft smiled faintly, but without the usual indulgent superiority that made most mere mortals feel tiny and completely stupid in contact with the older of the Holmes brothers. Now, however, his face looked openly honest, if you could say that about Mycroft Holmes, someone who was reigned perfect over his body and never showed emotions. Well, except maybe an annoying-as-hell omniscience, which was equivalent to the power he held.

"Will is not to be left alone," he said, hoping that his interlocutor would understand what he meant. To be sure, he added, "He should be cared for by someone-"

"Permanent and friendly, who can devote their time to him to the fullest. Who will not let him give up. In an environment that will not arouse in him more or less irrational fears." Mycroft recited with eyes closed. "I am well aware of that, Doctor. This is not the first time I have saved a person very close to me from similar situation."

Ah, Sherlock and his _very intelligent_ experimenting with hard drugs. Traditional and his own compositions, these drugs were made to stimulate the mind to work faster and process large amounts of data.

He felt uncomfortable. Mycroft had always acted alone, had probably prepared several scenarios and a number of skilled professionals waiting for his order. He did not need advice and help from an ordinary military doctor who wrote a blog.

He could almost hear Sherlock murmuring something like:

"And yet, my dear brother, do not trust anyone else when it comes to me. Only you, John."

Apparently that was right. But does it mean that he had been automatically entrusted with the task of taking care of Will?

He doubted that he could reconcile with the responsibilities the clinic brought, while running with Sherlock around London and taking care of him, whose time, for the last weeks, _months_ , had been spent in hell.

Mycroft's face was stoic as usual, but John had stayed too long with his brother to not see and understand certain things.

Sherlock and Mycroft could believe that he had a simple and slow, dull mind, but he could use it. Without it he would not have survived a minute of the missions in Iraq, Pakistan, Afghanistan, and previously in several African countries, where he not only served as a physician, but the commander of the four-division snipers. Fortunately, these records are covered by the confidentiality clause. He was not exactly proud of this part of their service, but nothing came free.

Will's situation in a strange way brought back a bad memory, when he and two of his men were ambushed. It was not about the ransom. Their captors seemed to know that they would not get that. No one acknowledged prisoners.

Ghosts, wraiths… desperados.

So they called several teams performing black missions and special operations. During the course they had received their orders from the top.

He had lost one subordinate who had died after his first attempt to escape. A few months after returning to the base he was wounded so seriously that active service could not be possible.

He shook himself from his thoughts and blinked. Mycroft's eyes met his. The look was cool, and although slightly less calculative than usual, it was still impenetrable. He maintained eye contact, though he sincerely just wanted to hide in a hole. He knew Mycroft had probably learned about his past. If not, the better.

He'd probably find out soon. Then he would not be so pleased, because in the end John not only saved, but took people's lives. In the service of Her Majesty. Many people, even his own. He shuddered involuntarily. Sometimes Sherlock was right, it was good to block emotions, feelings, hiding them deep within him. If only it were that simple, and the past could be forgotten.

Dr. Watson barely kept his emotions in check and after composing himself he once again checked how Will was holding up.

The journey home was tiring, but Will had had a seizure and John could divert attention away from the intrusive thoughts. He turned his attention to his patient, who in this moment seemed to be absent in spirit, or maybe just trying to figure out what was going on, listening and observing the surroundings without attracting attention.

"You are in danger - Will said quietly, looking at John's face. Not in his eyes. "He'll come for you..."

"Don't worry, little brother." John looked up as Mycroft entered the passenger compartment.

"The good doctor Hannibal Lecter will be bored to death in Baltimore without you, and it would be an irreparable loss, don't you think, John?"

"Pardon? Hm... Well, maybe."

 **HL / WG - SH / JW**

It was a rainy and cold day. Mrs. Hudson didn't appear when she was needed. He missed John. Mycroft had kidnapped him two and a half days ago. Sure, it had to be a pretty important situation, he would not dare do that otherwise. Fortunately, he had a few new cases. Two customers had almost been immediately dismissed with things that were so commonplace that it had been solved the moment they entered, and he was rolling his eyes with disgust. The third investigation took him exactly three hours and twenty two minutes. A too complicated story of precious little caskets pushed him off the right course and he could not go any further. This item - according to his assumptions that were bordering almost with absolute certainty - was crucial for solving the murder of two people.

When he closed it, the feeling of emptiness and loneliness returned and he was attacked by multiple forces. The swirling thoughts in his head gave him no peace, shouting over each other, trying to gain his attention. Then came the results of the overdue experiment. He received quite an intriguing message from Molly.

He smiled satisfied. He knew that Molly Hooper would not bore with a simple intoxication as a cause of death. It had to be something interesting. He would kill time while waiting for John's return.

Completing a phase of his experiment and not cleaning the kitchen, he threw on his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck. He slipped his phone into his pocket after checking whether it had enough power for at least a few hours of work.

Normally he would not care. He could always use Molly's or any other mortuary workers' from the hospital, but in the current situation he definitely preferred to have his own phone within easy reach.

He hoped that the study and determination of possible toxins would not take him more than a few hours. The longest he would have to wait would be the results of the analysis, but it did not bother him. The laboratory was his kingdom, and he made the rules. Boredom would not reach him there.

After two hours, he was sure that he was dealing with a serial killer who operated in order to create the appearance of natural death or an accident. After contacting a surprised Lestrade, he decided to explore the issue, because something was bothering him. Molly had had similar cases, but had received information about similar deaths in several cities in Wales and Scotland, and this meant that the perpetrator had apparently moved and did not stay in one place for long.

Four hours fifty three minutes later it was all clear. While waiting for the results of analysis, he drank three bearable cups of coffee and got into an argument with Mycroft over text. He broke the encrypted file on Molly's computer to view other interesting deaths. He looked at the recently imported bodies in the morgue - two drownings, four car accidents and one suicide - nothing special. Boring. He gathered new material and reagents for his experiments at home, complementing what he would undoubtedly need in the near future. He began to get a little bored when the results of the analysis finally came; one of them required a long wait, but the result probably confirmed his suspicions regarding the identity of the killer.

He glanced at his phone. No text message from John. It was quite unusual. Even in the company of a grumpy Mycroft, he should be able to text. Unless he had neither the time nor ability to. Puzzling.

He did not bother with this too. He just had to wait for John to come back before getting information. Even Mycroft was not going to stop him from finding out.


	2. Chapter 2

**HL / WG - SH / JW**

Hannibal relished in the strong coffee when he called Crawford for the second time in a few hours. Previously, the Chief of FBI Behavioural Bureau had asked him for help in outlining the banal profile of the perpetrator who was arrested, and now it was about Will. He smiled at his thoughts, wishing on one of them. He was deprived of the frequent and uncontrolled pleasure from anyone in contact with the empath.

Visits to the psychiatric hospital were not satisfactory. Neither for him nor for Will, who looked worse. He pointed to a clear change in the Graham's smell and he did not like it at all. Discretely reviewing Chilton's notes relating to the drugs administered to the former profiler, he began to think seriously about the kind of pickles which would give that colleague minimal taste.

Perhaps Hannibal should think about how fast and remaining unnoticed by the FBI, pull out William of this cage. He had made a huge mistake and now he should fix it as soon as possible. He started doing this by, giving Crawford something he so fiercely sought. He was absolutely sure that it was enough to catch the growing interest of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and redirect somewhere away from his career, wealth and possible links to the Chesapeake Ripper.

He thought that with suitable motion with minimal effort, which would strongly jumble the bigger picture and give him time, he might disappear. With Will, of course.

He decided he would see him.

An hour later, he learned that Will Graham had left the hospital for the mentally ill and dangerous criminals. This news electrified Doctor Lecter. Escape was not an option. He skilfully questioned Frederick Chilton who confessed to him that the agent definitely left the hospital and was taken by a very influential relative.

Hearing these words, Hannibal was honestly surprised. To his knowledge, Will was alone in the world, but he did not talk about his family much. This topic seemed to still be raw, still an oozing wound. With his own painful memories in this regard, Hannibal waited patiently. Now his curiosity was heightened and he decided to explore the mystery.

After a short talk with Jack he was even more curious, but from the mouth of the rabid bureau chief accidentally fell out the name Holmes.

Dr. Lecter pretended not to hear it and directed their conversations to the problems of several other investigations conducted by Crawford's people. Being in a good mood, he suggested this and that, casually suggesting a few things that the FBI needed for a clue.

He hoped that tonight Jack Crawford would find something important.

After leaving the agent, Hannibal sat in the library with his laptop and began to search himself up.

 **HL / WG - SH / JW**

He woke up screaming. As usual, he was all sweaty and sore. He had no idea where he was. It was definitely not his cell. There was a different smell and lighting. In the background he heard soothing, soft music. Classical. He didn't understand, couldn't remember. Had he gotten out?

His mind flashed a thought.

 _Hannibal?_

 _No, certainly not._

Ripper played with him, and when he finally got bored, threw him away like a worn, broken object. He didn't kill him, true, but there were moments when Will sincerely regretted it. In this case of life and death, being branded as a mad, cannibalistic criminal was a lot more painful and dreadful option, and doctor Lecter probably knew it.

His queasy stomach made a painful turn and he groaned loudly, trying unsuccessfully to stop the nausea.

He breathed in deeply. He did not even have the strength to protest when someone sat him on the bed, the seconds later on his knees was a bowl and he was vomiting, his body shaking uncontrollably. If not for someone's hands holding him firmly, he would have choked on his own vomit, rolling on the bed or on the floor.

"In a few hours it will be all over, little brother."

He was shivering, still not understanding, but specifically did not even want to understand the situation. He was relieved, and accepted the fact. Soon, he was lying down in fresh clothes and someone covered him with a soft blanket.

Falling asleep, he felt the slight prick of a syringe, but he retreated into his mind. There he could feel safe and nobody did not threaten him.

Cool water, the calming rustle of trees and the warmth of the sun. In the distance he saw a stag with raven feathers, but this time it seemed that the amazing animal was watching over him and keeping him safe.

"Full toxicology report on my desk in the morning, Doctor."

"Of course. Good night."

Mycroft Holmes nodded goodbye to the Holmes' family doctor and he sat down again by the bed where Will was lying. Intently, he watched the face of his younger brother. Half or not, at this time that was not important.

Will's resemblance to Sherlock was striking, despite some obvious differences.

Both were excommunicated by the environment. Misunderstood and ridiculed. Treated like freaks because of their unusual skills. And this strange weakness for doctors.

Well, Sherlock fortunately went for John Watson. Will Graham, in turn, was interested in someone very dangerous. One of the most dangerous and active serial killers terrorizing the East Coast of the United States.

It would confirm the family saying that Holmes' did suffer from deadly boredom and needed the thrill.

He was no exception, he just realized that his need was on a different field than his brothers.

 **HL / WG - SH / JW**

John wanted to go back to Baker Street, eat something, drink something warm, and crawl into bed. He was completely exhausted, both physically and mentally. But he could not do that, at least not at the moment.

Around him, people wandered. Mycroft, who took care of Will after landing, called for his assistant.

"Anthea, please accompany Doctor Watson home."

"Mycroft..." John looked at him and wanted to add that he could be of help, but instead stifled a yawn and closed his eyes. He had never been so tired. Looking around, he saw the elder Holmes' little mocking smile.

He had not slept for several dozen hours, a change of time zones in such a short time really gave him a hard time. And bloody Mycroft behaved as if nothing had happened.

"Yes, sir." Anthea replied with her usual mysterious smile, opening the door of one of several identical cars. John got in without a word and sat back. This time it was all the same to him it did not bother him that Mycroft's assistant ignored him, almost continuously working on her mobile. Although starting to relax, he could not calm his mind. He knew one thing: if he could get to sleep, he would have nightmares. The worst possible ones. And he wanted to avoid them at all costs. Unfortunately, he had run out of the legal preparation stimulants long ago, which sometimes proved to be invaluable during the service. It would have come in handy right about now. Very.

At some point he felt a touch and movement.

"John? We're here."

He nodded, murmuring a thanks and farewell.

How he reached the apartment, he could not say. He sat down on the couch, unable to do much else. He had no power to remove his jacket or his shoes. So in that state he was found by Sherlock, who stood in the doorway, watching him intently.

Sherlock approached him and without a word threw off his coat, before crouching in front of John.

"My brother's an idiot, although he has a huge opinion of himself. The mission was successful overseas?" The detective's fingers quickly coped with the resistant zipper jacket.

John did not answer, only nodded his head after a moment. "What time is it?"

"It's late enough to go to sleep."

Judging by the violent flinch, it probably wasn't a good answer. Sherlock's mind processed the data again and the answer was easy. The nightmares still tormented him, and John did not want to repeat what had happened a few days ago, when his screams had alerted Mrs. Hudson.

"No, not yet…"

Detective rolled his eye. Nightmares and insomnia are inherently companions, but now John showed outright fear of falling asleep. Therefore, he knew what he would see in his dreams. He changed tactics:

"I'll make tea, and then we'll talk. You tell me why Mycroft so unceremoniously demanded your presence during a routine, boring visit in Maryland. Had he withdrawn his doctor?"

He knew that it was far from the truth. Doctor Joseph Malone was an excellent physician, whom even he would entrust his life and everyone he knew. No one resigned from his services just like that.

Sherlock guessed among other things on why Mycroft took John. That was the only way for Doctor Malone to be able to get everything ready for their return. And this in turn led him to think, but after a few seconds Sherlock had his suspicions about the real reason for this trip.

With some difficulty he found the needed dishes in the kitchen, and eventually returned with a hot drink. John did not move when he was getting tea. He sat staring at the glowing fireplace. Mrs. Hudson had again forgotten to throw in more...

Sherlock once again uttered John's name, and had to wait a good few seconds until he saw the eye twitch and his obviously worn out look. Red, dark circles under his eyes. Pale, dry skin, heavy, shallow breathing. Yawn reflex. Significantly slowed the rate of reaction.

John really needed sleep, but something had happened during the trip. Not so bad as to evoke disturbing memories of his military service. But equally disturbing.

A testament to how difficult John's past was were the numerous scars on the body, which were, for John, a kind of taboo. He avoided talking about them, or simply distracted the detective on _important_ topics. Sherlock exceptionally did not press on and tried to fathom the strength of the case. He didn't even know what make him more restrained in that regard - the prospect of inevitably hurting his partner or his own fear and helplessness of the terrors he would be told.

But he felt that John's somewhat surprising behaviour had a deeper meaning. He could not clearly and specifically state what, but it was obvious that the circumstances in which it was wounded, imprinted an indelible mark on his psyche.

He sipped his tea, not taking his eyes from his partner. John covered the cup with both hands, absorbing heat. He was absolutely absent in spirit, mind straying far away, probably with no comfort in their memories. The inability of conscious communication with him extremely frustrated Sherlock. On the other hand, he had a rare opportunity to look at him as it was, reminiscent of his descent into his mind palace.

John could not count on the comfort and security that he had guaranteed. It was evident at first glance. Light shaking hands and a clenched jaw testified to the increasing levels of anxiety and stress. Not for the first time, he thought of asking John to learn this technique. In his case it was sufficient to start with a very basic version.

 **HL / WG - SH / JW**

 _It was dark. Hot and stuffy. His tongue was like wood in his mouth. He was unable to move it. Only after a few seconds, he realized that he had a gag in his mouth and a blindfold over his eyes. Or maybe a dark bag on his head? Those who were holding him probably did not want him to remember them. He didn't even want to convince himself of it all. The blood pounded in his ears, and he was terrified._

 _His back was on fire, so he huddled on his side. However, they weren't letting him rest in peace. He was violently jerked and placed on something. He did not understand what was happening but he tried to fight nonetheless. He was hit in the head, probably with the butt of a firearm, which, unfortunately, did not render him unconscious, though effectively stunned him. When he recovered, the gag disappeared._

 _Again, they beat and kicked him. And then they demanded answers to their questions. He was silent. There was nothing else he could do._

 _Then came the pain. Monstrous pain. Hellish hot pain focused on his right sole. He was not even able to tell when they had taken off his shoes. His dry, sore throat tightened at the thought of what his senses and imagination could - and could not - tell him._

 _He heard muffled screams. He knew that voice, but he did not know from where. The scream of pain was much softer than the happy, derisive laughter. He could not breathe. He choked, jerking violently, trying to throw off that which obscured his view. But the more he struggled, the more the bonds tightened._

 _Desperate helplessness, ironically, gave him strength._ I will free myself if it's the last thing I do. _But he could not, regardless of his frantic efforts.. Then he felt the cold blade on his body and then the first, hot, sticky drops of blood flowing lazily across his chest and belly._

 _The knife's sharp tip gouged perfidy in his sole. His foot hurt horribly. His whole body was drowning in pulsing agony._

 _His own knife… He couldn't remember if it was clean after the last usage or not, but his mind doctor conducted a rapid assessment of the damage and any chance of infection, which grew alarmingly fast._

 _A crunch in his left ankle and an almost strange, animalistic howl._

 _He couldn't escape, and the possibility that one of the patrols would find him alive was a miracle._

 _Oh, Watson. You won't get a chance to return home. You'll be declared missing in action. No one will remember you._

 **HL / WG - SH / JW**

Sherlock looked toward the door, hearing the soft footsteps. Bare feet. John, who looked even worse. Limping, he was wearing only pyjama bottoms and a too big dressing-gown belonging to the detective. He was wrapped in it, as if trying to fend off any danger. A few minutes earlier, he had to splash face with water - water droplets still glistened on his hairline, but it did not help wash away the remnants of his nightmare. He was still pretty deep in it, if you could judge by his uneven breath, accelerated heart rate and goosebumps on his arms and neck. Thus significantly serious.

"You're here, aren't you? I do not want to be alone right now."

Sherlock's eyes widened, hearing the almost pleading tone. John probably did not think that...

He gasped when a fraction of a second later he realized. John Watson did not remember that he had returned, after many months had passed, stuck in a disturbing belief that he still had visual and auditory hallucinations.

Without looking at him, John sat on the couch. In the pale light of a small lamp on the desk, the detective easily saw his friend's eyes shine with unshed tears.

"I have to let you go, Sherlock. I'm pathetic, don't you think?" John's mirthless snort changed into a painful, drawn-out sigh. "You deserve peace but without you I can't bear it. And I dreamed, again. Fortunately, this time my screams didn't wake Mrs. Hudson. The poor woman set up bedtime stoppers. I never endured torture well. I shouldn't talk about it, it's a secret, but... You won't betray me, right?"

Torture? _His_ John was _tortured?_

His mind shook with this revelation.

 _When? Who? For how long?_

He needed more data immediately.

He had a pretty high pain threshold and through appropriate training - kindness on the part of Mycroft and one of his agents - could survive brutal interrogation a few times. He closed those memories in the distant wing of his mind palace. Involuntarily he shuddered at the thought of visiting them. Often enough, they haunted him in his sleep.

In contrast, John... Military training according to his incomplete knowledge - he was never specifically interested - did not cover this.

Could it be, however, that he did not see John's entire file? After all, he had been granted various privileges to confidential and secret information on the banal diamond earrings, in spite of an unfavourable recommendation from his older brother.

He would contact Mycroft and squeeze out the information, even at the price of two, three cases tops. John's past was worth it.

"I did not think that I would survive." John's voice was so quiet that he had to strain his ears to hear. "I gave myself up to a thirty percent chance with good luck. I was dehydrated and weak, with troublesome injuries and worse, completely alone, and even my own predictions that I get out of there on my own, from that damn basement, were less than zero. I did not even know where I was. It was hell compared to this damned gunshot."

Involuntarily rubbed his arm, but it did not have the right to hurt him so much. He did not interrupt, he could not stop. Emotions and pain restrained and held in silence for years, now broke the dam. This wasn't a fictional heroic story, because the heroes in movies rarely feel dread and despair, that closing their eyes, they might not open again. They do not beg for a miracle, trying to fool themselves. That everything would be alright, that someone would come for them. Snatch them from the jaws of death.

Sherlock was silent, absorbing every word whispered. In his mind, he had already created a picture of the situation and immediately he wanted to erase what he saw.

"Oh, John."

"I exhausted my limit of miracles, didn't I, Sherlock? Even the Devil did not come for my soul." He sighed, exhausted, and when he spoke next he sounded defeated: "I miss you so much."

The detective could not find any words that would be appropriate. Instead, he reached for his violin and, standing in his usual place, began to play. Nothing spectacular, he did not focus on a particular song, or rather soothing, somewhat wistful melodies, which often helped to calm John's nerves. He started with Tchaikovsky's Serenade, playing slightly different phrases, repeating them and cutting off in order to achieve the desired goal.

He turned on his heel without interrupting. Concerto number five in A Major by Mozart seemed the obvious next choice. John did not like classical music, but liked a few composers. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was one of his favourite.

Sherlock smiled faintly, looking at the slumbering partner. Face drawn, relaxed slightly, and the clenched, trembling hands so far rested now, if loosely, one on the back of the couch and the other on the man's lap.

Still he wasn't resting as he should.

"Sometimes you're more stubborn than that oaf Mycroft." Sherlock went smoothly in a different melodic line. His own composition, still imperfect and incomplete, but was often played, improving this and that. In a striking way it affected John, with much better results than the works of the great masters. Especially after his return.

He shook his head, watching with a smile as his friend lay on the couch. After a long moment, John really relaxed.

He played, this time without taking his eyes from the only riddle which he could not and did not want to solve.

 **HL / WG - SH / JW**

Hannibal smiled at his thoughts. He had managed to gather some information and although he did not really like the prospect of lack of contact with Will, on the other hand, he was sure that this time he was in the best possible care.

Indeed, disputes were a mistake, leading to a former agent being embedded in the resort Chilton. Now he saw it and sincerely repented. Sooner or later, Frederick would pay dearly for his transgressions and omissions. But now wasn't the time. For now, he would let him enjoy his popularity and fame. Let the idiotic guest programs, pathetically preen about Will as a strange natural phenomenon.

America had already started to become a little weary. Time to go back to the Old Continent. England was indeed interesting.

He had not spent too much time in Britain, focusing his attention on the sunny Italy. But now he preferred to steer clear of that country. Too many memories - good and bad. Perhaps someday, he would show Will his favourite places, unknown to ordinary tourists w=ith guided paths.

He was convinced that his effort would profit. The empath was known to quickly absorb knowledge. Maybe he would allow Hannibal to teach him Italian. French would not be no problem yet for someone who lived in Louisiana.

He knew that first he did not have to convince only Will, but his new family. It was not going to be a simple matter, but definitely an interesting challenge.

 **HL / WG - SH / JW**


	3. Chapter 3

**HL / WG - SH / JW**

A mobile phone vibrated gently in the eldest Holmes' pocket.

'How's our dear baby brother? You're using rapid detoxification mode, I'm not envious. – SH'

Mycroft smiled wryly, looking at the screen.

Sherlock had a certain sense of humour, even for the Holmes, he had to admit.

"I don't doubt it, brother." Mycroft glanced at the figure on the bed. Will was a very light sleeper, but now did not move when his older brother gently touched his burning forehead.

'Didn't he go mad at your company? – SH'

Mycroft decided that he would not comment on that. Not a moment passed, and there was a gentle buzz of the device.

'I need FULL service records on John. For tomorrow. – SH'

"It will cost, but you had already predicted it, right? Good boy," murmured Mycroft looking at his mobile phone.

It was morning a few hours later, hours which passed far too quickly. In two more hours a man in a clad suit brought a sealed envelope. Mycroft didn't open it, just put it on the bedside table. Of course, that tempted him. He had an overwhelming desire to protect his younger siblings, to gather as much information about their different environments, to eliminate any possible threat was eating him up from the inside, but there were certain things that even he could not stop.

Sherlock had the curiosity and determination to stand his ground. He realized that his obsessive overprotection was not welcome nor accepted by the detective. Sherlock valued independence too much when it suited him, and at the same time got angry when help from his side did not arrive quickly.

About five in the morning, a servant brought Mycroft strong coffee. Although tea had always been his favourite drink, coffee now proved to be a godsend. Like Sherlock, Mycroft also trained his body to not lose too much time on unimportant matters, which included sleep among others.

Too much depended on him.

He asked for another cup of coffee and looked at the draft documents that required demanding yet gentle grinding before they were approved by Her Majesty. And it was clear that she probably would want to talk to him not only about this during the weekly audience.

He was sure that he would see the disappointment deeply hidden under the mask of cool politeness. Perhaps he could explain the situation to Her Majesty and she would not bore him about bringing grave danger to her subjects. He had an idea how to stop Hannibal Lecter without having to hold him in prison under solitary confinement.

He did not want to create an unnecessary wall between them. That would arouse contempt from the first glance, and he very well knew it.

He sighed heavily. He needed to act prudently and without unnecessary nervousness.

Keep a calm and collected mind, as his mother used to say.

He smiled wryly.

On that thought, he felt like a schoolboy trying to hide his antics. Well, Mummy was currently resting in Scotland and did not pay much attention to what was happening outside of her small residence. He did not want her to get too worried over little things.

 **HL / WG - SH / JW**

John sighed quietly, rubbing his face. He should be getting up, but he still felt exhausted. He resisted the temptation to go back to sleep and, discarding clothing, sat on the edge of the bed...

Wait, wait. Bed? Indeed, he remembers that he had dragged himself upstairs, but it was not his room. His former room.

Well, he was in Sherlock's bedroom.

"It was closer and far more comfortable than the couch. Anyway, after all, we do not have to sleep alone, right?"

 _You almost never sleep_ , John planned to retort, but only looked at Sherlock, who was leaning against a wall in the entrance.

 _Until I'll make you go to bed_ , he smiled to his thoughts _._

But now he was confused. How he get here? He had walked in his dream? Like Will?

It was ridiculous, he snorted at his stubborn mind. What utter nonsense!

"What's ridiculous, John?"

John gave his friend a look that betrayed his surprise and incomprehension.

"No, nothing," he said, smiling faintly.

But Sherlock was like a hunting dog, he never gave up until he reached the heart of the matter.

John took a deep breath and finally asked:

"I wasn't sleepwalking, right?"

Sherlock's eyes flashed understanding and the detective approached, saying:

"No. I brought you." The detective was standing right beside him. Sure, extremely attentive eyes looked him through when he leaned slightly toward him and pushed him the pillow. "Get some sleep yet, you woke from a nightmare thrice."

John grabbed Sherlock's dressing gown and pulled him closer, greedily starting to kiss his face and neck. John did not understand why he felt this sudden, irresistible desire for closeness, but it was not important and he was glad that Sherlock didn't object. It was certainly not more important than the taste of Sherlock, biting and kissing every available piece of skin, enjoying the touch and sounds of them both groaning softly.

When things started to get good and everything outside of them ceased to have meaning, someone knocked on the bedroom door, which had been left ajar.

"Boys? Am I interrupting?"

Usually Sherlock did not care about behaving well and was gruff to Mrs. Hudson, but at this time John had a sincere want to throw her out of the apartment.

He fell on the bed and looked at the detective, the corners of the Sherlock's lips floating up into a gentle smile.

"We can always come back to it as soon as she leaves. Put your pants on."

John snorted and managed a last brief kiss before Sherlock stood up with an unreadable expression on his face.

John had wondered for years about Sherlock's relationship with Mrs Hudson. Certainly there was intimacy between them and a large tolerance on the part of a detective to the mild and almost maternal scolding landlord, and their not-housekeeper.

It was definitely something more. She was a good spirit, with her radiant smile and infinite, angelic patience. She grumbled and grumbled, seeing various body parts stored in their fridge and an eternal mess, but John noticed her warm, anxious eyes when she looked at them. She stood by him when everyone else pointed at him, when they turned away from him because they could not stand his behaviour, when he built a thick wall around himself. She didn't allow him to become a wild and antisocial creature, when self-destructive thoughts pushed him to the limit.

Indeed Sherlock put it perfectly - if Mrs Hudson left Baker Street, England would fall. She did not, even after a long conversation with Mycroft, who tried to convince her to move in with her sister. She was unmoved and stayed on Baker Street.

His heart warmed at the thought of Mrs. Hudson.

Well, maybe except for moments such as this.

Yet despite the embarrassment and irritation, the woman standing in the doorway of the bedroom had probably heard everything, Dr. Watson smiled involuntarily. He could almost see her face when she realized that her suspicions were true. His thoughts returned once again to their first visit and conversation. How was it possible that she had known...

His meditation was interrupted when Sherlock's raised voice came from the living room:

"But that's impossible, Mrs. Hudson! 221C is free, dammit!"

"What's going on? What's impossible?"

The detective circled the room, muttering under his breath. In the end, the offended male snorted, threw himself on the couch and turned his back toward them.

"Soon you'll live with someone else."

John paused, hearing these words.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Hudson, but where? This is our apartment. We pay regularly, we don't cause trouble..." The woman coughed significantly, but John ignored her and continued. "Granted, there are no major problems with us. I don't understand why..."

A sudden thought struck him and closed his eyes. Well, who else could it be. That damn, nosy, all-powerful Mycroft.

"Mycroft, right?"

Ms. Hudson looked embarrassed and nodded, slowly backing toward the door.

At the mention of his brother, Sherlock jumped up in a split second.

"What has my idiotic brother done this time? What does he have to do with..." The detective looked deep into Mrs Hudson's eyes, and after a moment gasped. "I'm going to murder him."

 **HL / WG - SH / JW**

After Mrs. Hudson had left, Sherlock had spent a good few minutes arguing with his brother via text message to persuade him to change his mind. Unfortunately, John guessed that it was probably not possible. And so it was settled. Working at the clinic may turn out to be unnecessary, because these two would give him a job from dawn until late at night, maybe even the whole day. Three of them, if you counted Mycroft.

Dammit!

He had to work to become independent and stop being at the beck and call Holmes brothers.

Okay, wild dream. Impossible.

Like it or not, he would never be free of them. He was complaining, but deep down he knew that he needed them as much as they needed him.

With his past, he did not fit into the world of "normal" people and PTSD therapy did not change that. War changed people.

He sighed heavily, dropping into his chair.

"You are angry and worried. Unnecessarily," the detective said, laying back on the couch. "We can always threaten Mycroft. And leave Will under his loving care. Mycroft should know…"

"Sherlock!"

John shook his head and gave him a disapproving look, which had no major effect - as per usual in such moments the genius seemed to have ignored him completely.

"You just need a case." The detective got up again and took his laptop which lay on the desk.

John looked at him and couldn't believe his own ears.

" _I_ need an case?!"

"Definitely. When you were away, I solved a couple of children's puzzles, but I could use an actual one, an eight or nine. I definitely won't be a ten," Sherlock said undeterred, searching through local news.

Usually, he did it on his mobile phone and that was what surprised John.

"Where's your mobile phone?"

"In the bedroom." The detective did not look up, tapping lightly on his keyboard. Then let out a painful groan.

"There's nothing! There's absolutely nothing! Is it so hard to commit a crime in an interesting way? Even murderers are starting to be boring."

"Lestrade promised you a couple of days ago that he was going to bring you an old serial murderer case. The cold case from the police archive. He had said they needed your help, didn't he?"

The detective raised an eyebrow, not remembering that promise, but he had John to do that.

"We'll see," Sherlock gave him a gentle smile reserved especially for such occasions. He did not want to arouse hope, because he was not sure how complicated and interesting the case would be.

Browsing the news, he peered at John, who in turn did not look at him, reading a newspaper. Mrs. Hudson had to bring them, because he did not buy a single one since Mycroft had kidnapped his beloved blogger for the mission in America.

The last few days he had used the electronic version.

After reviewing the paper, John picked up the laptop and he began to browse.

"Goddamn vultures!" he exclaimed at one point, what caught Sherlock's attention. "No one checked the personnel?"

"Who?"

"I... Will. Yes, I suppose you know who I'm talking about. Don't look at me like that, you bastard. You knew what and where your brother took me once sent that goddamn car!" The tone and expression belied sharp words. However, when the eyes of John rested back on the screen, his lips curled in such a characteristic way.

"Of course I know who you're talking about, John. Mycroft will be entertained at the break of his government duties, hopefully better than in Serbia" said Holmes, peering at the blurred, small pictures adorning a short note about the transport of dangerous prisoner on the local newspaper. Evidently reprint of the tabloid. Whoever was behind this, simply he asked about the crash. And if asked so nicely, it is surely going to get.

"In Serbia?"

The detective merely waved his hand. He did not tell John about certain details of his mission, which he had undertaken to destroy Moriarty's network. And even John, as great a doctor that he was, could quite easily be deceived. He did not want to burden him with this story, even though he knew that sooner or later, John would find out. And he would not be happy that Sherlock "forgot" to tell him.

At least he knew how to effectively harness his rage and transform his passion into something that did not turn into handcuffs and fighting, and something that was much more pleasant for the both of them.

Sherlock smiled at his thoughts. Passion and desire did not fit in rational terms, but surprisingly did not slow down his thought process.

He had to still check and test to see if it did help to accelerate it somehow.

The question was whether John was going to allow him to test out this tiny manipulation or not. On the other hand, with a little effort the question of consent in this matter would not be necessary.

 **HL / WG - SH / JW**

Hannibal smiled, looking at the results displayed on the handheld screen. He chose one link and opened a very brief note in the electronic version of the London tabloid devoted to the mysterious, contingency landing of the government's aircraft. His eyes swept the text, in which the author had created quite a primitive conspiracy theory. It was nice to see a familiar face in photos. Unfortunately, the note focused on repeating the lie and draw the reader's attention to the potential danger.

 _As if we did not have enough of our own criminals, the government is importing them to us!_ Dr. Lecter shook his head. If it were not so directly associated with his favourite empath, perhaps this situation would be amusing. Another very short article took a stand for the citizens of the potential threat to unimaginable proportions.

It was not very professional on the part of the editors and journalists that they decided to make something public that they had not yet read through to the end.

He was interested in Holmes' response to these press releases. Will was out of his hands, but that did not mean that justice would not reach those who trespass arrogance and lack rethinking over some things.

He thought back to what he had found on the Holmes brothers. He was pleasantly surprised to discover that Mycroft Holmes, who had undoubtedly personally took Will from the Chilton's care, was one of the most dangerous and highly underrated figures in the government of Great Britain. He had heard about Sherlock Holmes' fame and was eager to recognize Will's new family.

He smiled tenderly, stroking the photo of Will taken from a distance. But distance did not distort the empath's delicate features. It was clear, if insignificant, but Hannibal noticed. Artificial light gave his face a pale appearance. Only now did he notice that Graham - Holmes - was thin and tired.

Why had he not seen it before?

Was it the euphoria of his victory over Jack? Cruelty? Or maybe he just didn't want to see it, because it was safer and better for the both of them.

He took a sip of good cognac, pushing those thoughts aside. It was not that important now. He did not want to rush, but on the other hand, he wanted a new challenge.

A few weeks of training for forensic psychiatrists with the participation of specialists around the world taking place - quite by chance - in London turned out to be a good excuse to leave America without awakening much interest. Not so long ago, he had decided to resign from this opportunity, but was now eagerly awaiting this. For the training he was invited by the organizers and he was to deliver two lectures. He was prepared for this, but ultimately decided sending the relevant materials almost past the deadline. Although he did it so late, everything he had prepared was very interesting.

The FBI suspected him, but did not gain enough hard evidence of his guilt. He was too smart to let it happen. All clues lead the investigators to a completely different person. Some with planted, conclusive evidence as well. All that allowed him to safely get rid of excessive attention from the FBI.

He knew that Mycroft Holmes may not be as noticeable and direct, but was much more powerful than provocation on the part of Crawford, who committed one mistake after another, shoving inexperienced agents onto him. Like throwing a lamb to the lions.

Quite literally.

Yet he was eagerly awaiting the moment when he would leave the United States for good and return to the borders of the Old Continent.

Maintaining the dark and predatory nature in check and controlling that it didn't slip at the wrong moment, it wasn't a big problem. He was proud of his strong will.

Now he reckoned with the fact that his self-control would be tested repeatedly and subjected to various tests. As a psychiatrist, he was ready for it.

 **HL / WG - SH / JW**

"Busy with torture? - SH"

Mycroft rolled his eyes, seeing another text message from Sherlock. He knew what his brother was trying to say.

"Not yet, brother mine." His fingers tapped rapid response, not related to this particular case, but the precise time of delivery of the envelope with John Watson's history in the military service.

"Reluctantly, I agree to the terms. TWO interesting cases. By the way, check Reginald Jones, it's him. - SH"

Mycroft was not even surprised how the detective knew the name. Probably again, protection against hacker intrusion would need to be strengthened. On the other hand, the best team of computer scientists did not protest too much last time, just got to work when Sherlock passed high class barriers almost unnoticed and gained interesting secret information.

A bored Sherlock Holmes did not allow anyone else to be bored.

Nonetheless, Mycroft trusted his brother in some cases. This was one of them. Whoever messed with the Holmes would remember the consequences.

And because of this, and the fact that he had adequate resources, it fell to him to share this delightful undoubtedly obligation to take them out.

He began to study the life and work of Jones, and sometime later Anthea came with a cup of strong, sweetened coffee. Tea became a privilege and a very distant memory.

"Confirmed, sir. He booked a one way ticket. We are looking at several residences across the country, where the new residents recently started to move in. We suspect him coming around London, but we'll check everything just in case."

"Thank you, my dear. It's going to get very interesting."

He narrowed his eyes, looking at the printed image of Hannibal Lecter that lay neatly on the pile of documents.

"If my suspicions are confirmed, you will not walk hungry, Doctor."

 **HL / WG - SH / JW**


	4. Chapter 4

**HL/WG - SH/JW**

He breathed in deeply, listening for a moment. Slowly, he opened his eyes, trying to make his awakening go unnoticed. One of the things he had learned at that damned psychiatric hospital. There, his every move was tracked by the camera, although sometimes the guards were also trouble, especially when Chilton was bored watching the patients being subdued by the drugs. He liked to move them with _slight_ jostle, like sluggish animals in cages.

He felt faint, vaguely remembering what had happened the last few days. For now, he preferred not to dispel that fog.

The door creaked open slightly and he heard the muffled sound of footsteps approaching the bed. The woman, judging by her way of walking.

"You can open your eyes, my child. You are in the safest place on earth."

Repeatedly trying to convince himself not to risk anything, he himself several times had almost naively believed in these statements, but then came the major disappointment. But there was something in that voice that made him barely open his eyes and heave himself into a sitting position. The muscles of his hands, neck, back, abdomen and legs trembled uncontrollably, as if he had physically worked hard the last few days, and not just opened his eyes. He was exhausted. As soon he sat up, a dizzy spell attacked him. Falling back onto the pillow, he saw that he was connected to an IV drip.

But why?

What was in it?

As it reiterated its listeners in Quantico, ignorance is bliss, but a curse at the same time.

"Do not get up. You are thirsty, and do not think about the IV, my child. Let me help you." The woman did not wait for his response. She sat on the edge of the bed, bringing a glass with a straw to his mouth. He tried to grasp it in his hand, but could not. He gasped, upset. Indeed, he was extremely thirsty. He just realised.

Water. Cool, slightly effervescent, wonderfully sweet and at the same time neutral in flavour.

He tried not to think about that woman. It surprised him that she didn't send any hostile signals. He wondered if she knew who he was and what he was doing here.

The woman smiled gently, watching him. She brushed the unruly strands of hair damp with sweat from Will's forehead, then put the glass of water on the nightstand. She seemed to be refraining from something. She was warm, her delicate, strong fingers brushing his cheek.

"Of course I know who you are, my dear boy. I have waited a long time to see you. You see, some people think that I do not see what they are trying - unsuccessfully - to hide from me. But enough about that. Close your eyes and sleep. Sleep is the best cure for you. Nightmares cannot reach you here, William." The smile finally reached her eyes and Will's eyes quickly swept her face. She seemed really familiar, but could not place it. No one but Hannibal had said his full name with such tenderness. Not even his father. Nor did he know why her touch, barely brushing, didn't awaken in him an instinctive desire to escape. "There will be time to talk later. Sleep, my child."

She stood up and smoothed the bed sheet, and Will had a vague impression that in a similar way someone had already done it quite recently. He wanted to ask who she was, but she was gone.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Even the quiet beeping device, which was probably connected to him, did not stop the wonderful peace that engulfed him.

He wondered why somebody brought him here, providing him luxuries, about which he had never even dreamed of in recent times and not having to worry that Hannibal Lecter soon coming to the door. Even before all of this, Hannibal spoke of longing to go to Europe. He could not remember exactly in what context, but clearly the psychiatrist, and at the same time the serial killer, wanted to leave America. Even then.

Now he was surely going to follow him. He was going to find a suitable excuse to leave without arousing suspicion and without regretting his life in Baltimore. Behind him very much committed to each other. Unfortunately, the mind of Dr. Lecter, the Chesapeake Ripper, was a fiendishly clever trap in itself. It was impossible to leave once you were approached by him.

Will sighed. He did not have the strength to think about Hannibal and his undoubtedly dangerous intentions.

 **HL / WG - SH / JW**

"John? John!"

Sherlock Holmes sighed. Then he looked up from the kitchen table laden with equipment needed to carry out his current experiment, but a coloured post-it was stuck on a pile of papers on his right.

" _I'm going shopping, and later to the library._ "

The detective read this short note for the second time, and his eyes narrowed.

Library? For what?

They possessed quite a large collection of various titles, and those which they did not have, they could easily get from Mycroft.

Then there was the doorbell and a determined knock.

Sherlock stood up with a sigh, when the bell again tore his attention away from the chemical reaction. He would have to do it all over again.

Mrs. Hudson was not in as usual, and it was far too early to be on a date with her suitor, so it was probably Bridge with her friends. Indeed, after all, it was aThursday.

At this time, it was probably his dear brother. He opened the door and sat down in the chair.

"You have it?" he asked instead of greeting.

Mycroft smiled, handing him an envelope.

"Three interesting cases, right?"

"Dear brother, traveling across the ocean is definitely not for you, because your IQ drops drastically." Sherlock countered with a nasty smile. "Two cases. How is Will? Still requires constant care?"

Mycroft snorted and rolled his eyes in a very discreet way, but he gave vent to his exasperation by his brother's words.

"He's a more docile patient than you ever could be, for sure, brother dear."

Sherlock looked at his brother, amused.

"You've already begun to compare us. The good and the troubled. Of course, I'm the bad guy, a disgrace to the family..." the detective said idly, fingering the edge of the envelope lying on his lap. Something flashed in his eyes, but almost immediately disappeared like it was never there at all.

"If you're going to wallow in self-pity like this, I have more important things on my mind, Sherlock. A worrying situation in the Middle East-"

"Then go. I'm not stopping you."

The detective stood in front of the sofa with the envelope in his hand. He looked at some new photos and photocopies attached a few hours earlier and at the same time to understand something. What he thought was merely a warm-up before what Lestrade had to deliver him, turned out to be something completely different.

"I'm such a fool!" he growled angry at himself.

"It's nothing new for me, little brother, but please let me hear what caused this terrible self-criticism? I'm dying of curiosity."

Sherlock gave him a knowing look and shut his mouth.

 **HL/WG - SH/JW**

The house was almost ready and equipped with everything he'd asked for. The expensive wine cellar arrangement would take care of itself at a later date, in order not to arouse unwanted interest. The house was very old, but the previous owners equipped it with the comforts of the modern world, combining the charm of bygone centuries with the practicality of modern times. Its residence was in a quiet area where the noise of the city had not yet reached, surrounded and separated from the rest of the neighbourhood. It reminded Hannibal of Will's house at Wolf Trap. It certainly wasn't so isolated, but no one undesirable could bother him there.

Anyway, some people had probably already ensured that no one disturbed him. Mycroft Holmes would likely depend on that to protect innocent citizens from meeting someone like him.

He smiled, thinking how his first meeting with Mycroft Holmes would go, who undoubtedly was someone who cared about the safety of his family, and judging by some comments on the very interesting blog of Dr. John Watson, this care and concern for his brother that bordered on obsessive.

Hannibal sighed and closed his eyes for a moment.

Well, he understood that feeling. His concern for Will also made him feel similar emotions. He realized that his recent actions against the empath could put him in very unfavourable light. Unfortunately, this might make it unfavourable for him to go alone. At first he wanted to take Chilton with him, but the time of his disappearance could only bring some complications, so he decided to do things differently - let Mycroft Holmes make him pay. Perhaps that could be acceptable as a welcome gift and he would consider it a gesture of goodwill.

He reached for his notes from conversations with Will. A person who emerged from them intrigued him again, not as an object of research but an intelligent interlocutor and a wonderful, extremely devoted listener. Empathy in its purest form wasn't played here the first wings. Will made up his ignorance with intelligence and a desire to know. Hannibal remembered his hungry look when he had mentioned Italy, Florence. The paintings. The music. The architecture.

Without these conversations Doctor Lecter felt alone. Other people only filled part of his life, and even the last, exceptionally successful opera event did not give that usual satisfaction.

If only he could turn back time and push certain situations in a different direction.

He had prepared everything carefully, though the prospect of being in London and meeting Holmes undoubtedly meant that he had become impatient. But he could tame his own desires and push himself to go according to the established plan.

 **HL/WG - SH/JW.**

 _Dear Hannibal,_

 _If you read this message before the fifth, in which I seriously doubt, you will have more opportunity to insult me ... though perhaps not. Because you care about appearances, good manners above all. But that's true. Everything reminds me of that, and especially myself. My thoughts. Dreams and delusions. So far I'm not sure what is true and what isn't._

 _Only you seem to be permanent in this bloody equation, regardless of how you are called. You have so many names, masks, I know this. Often it is difficult to see, and even I was so blind. I should have noticed it first. Empathy is committed. The ability to enter the minds of criminals is as well._

 _Hannibal Lecter, the doctor recognized, respected by all citizens by helping the FBI in difficult investigations and giving his extensive knowledge to catch the most dangerous criminals, murderers._

 _The shadow in my head. One of many._

 _Just like the Chesapeake Ripper, one of the bloodiest of the five serial killers now terrorizing America, who converts his victims in the sublime and it's terrible but at the same time, a work of art. Cannibal, feeding on carefully selected and prepared organs or body parts of the victim._

 _I had to find him, catch him, but he caught me first._

 _I was too careless._

 _Not like you._

 _Connoisseur and art lover, patron of theatre, opera. Someone who nowadays still retains the ability to do calligraphy and use it every day. Not only does calligraphy. I've seen some of your drawings. They are phenomenal, and you have called them simply paltry sketches. Sometimes I wonder if it's your obsession with perfection, or simply that you touch something and it just comes out perfectly._

 _You're talented in every way and regardless of what you do. You put your heart and soul into everything. Woe to those who do not appreciate that._

 _You're eager for applause, but at the same time work hard to be recognised as a great artist._

 _Sure, you smile, reading these words, because I willy-nilly tickled your ego with compliments. But they support what you describe as others' reality._

 _I underestimated your efforts and have paid a high price. I'm not going to feel sorry for myself, I never liked that self-flogging attitude. To demand someone's attention and comfort._

 _It's not for me._

 _But I'll tell you, Hannibal. I do not regret anything, even though it hurts like bloody hell. Forgive me for this little expression, but it hurts. The wounds are physically able to close, heal, scar, and over time cease to be visible. Maybe it's because we humans get used to its presence. But the emotional pain will remain for much longer, and it will not change the intensity of intervening weeks and months._

 _I wonder why you did not do what your experience prompted you, when you had so many opportunities. Many times you saw me in a position where it had to be easier for you than clicking fingers. No one would even suspect you of anything. Especially with your experience in this regard. I know, I can understand your motives, why you stopped. You can say that I was, and still am, important to you, but even you should see that you had showed otherwise._

 _I trusted you, I still trust you, though I should not. But it sounds like a dumb romance, because even now I cannot stop thinking of you as one of the closest people to me. You're still my friend. My only friend._

 _I'm so tired. Of chasing ghosts, of what cannot be attained. I can feel it escaping from between my fingers whenever I think I've finally gotten there. Of FBI expectations, I immerse myself in other people's' minds at their request and give simple, clear, specific guidance on the suspect and the crime. And then I repeat the trick so long and so often until they get tired. Especially now, when everyone has recognized me as one of the Chilton freaks._

 _I know, I should not wallowing in self-pity. But no. I do not feel sorry. I'm just taking this opportunity to write my thoughts down. While I can._

 _Maybe this is my last opportunity to take advantage of your services as a high-class specialist, Hannibal. I can finally fall asleep without having to watch everything that exists under my eyelids. Without fear of nightmares, without the uncertainty that I unintentionally hurt someone, although I do not know whom, or in what circumstances._

 _I wonder if you would fulfil my last wish, if I asked you. I'll probably have to do something for you first._

 _Just what do you expect?_

 _Whatever you want for the release of my damned existence of this immersion in human atrocities, from unbearable loneliness and pain that would be granted._

 _I do not know if this is my loneliness, or the perpetrators. Our beings, thoughts melt too far, right now. In addition to dogs and you, I do not have anyone close. I'm alone and the only company I have are the thoughts and fragmented personalities of individual criminals that I had analysed. Their company is a horrible curse. Forgive me if the neighbourhood of my quadrupeds make you feel uncomfortable, but it is true in this case. My dogs are my family, just like you._

 _Regardless of irony, for I chose my family... Even now, knowing what I know, I would choose the same._

 _Well... Do you remember our conversations and mental exercises? I have one for you. I realize, again, that that may flatter your ego and imagination, but this question bothers me:_

 _How you would end my life? Would you strangle it out of me a little by little, savouring the situation, or would you do it fast?_

 _What would it mean to you?_

 _Would I die suffering? Aware of agony and fighting for every breath? Or would you care to spare me this?_

 _I do not know which option you would prefer really. Both are extremely tempting as the first would let me know and see it all, while in the second case you pose as an almost affectionate and gentle murderer._

 _This is probably an oxymoron, as far as I remember from school._

 _Would you break your principles for me and show me your heart?_

 _I don't know if that's an impossible, wild dream._

 _I can almost see you smile reading these words. On the other hand, I know that underneath your skin lives a powerful, indomitable element, which can be overpowered and have hidden under the mask of politeness._

 _Much can be said about you, but you are not romantic. I know this very well. Your life and the losses you have suffered from an early age quite brutally taught you hard though softly and quietly rooted your feet to the ground._

 _Like a solitary predator._

 _Forgive me, but I just saw the eyes of your imagination animal and potentially alter ego. One of the big cats. Fast, smart and dangerous. Hell of a patient. Lurking in hiding for weeks, it will start to attack. Deadly and beautiful. Bloody, yet surprisingly gentle._

 _Kindly laugh and sneer at my pathetic metaphor. I probably would not hear it with my own ears, you are too well-mannered and somewhat old-fashioned. If others have had the same commitment to maintaining appearances and impeccable manners, the world would be a nicer place._

 _I do not know whether to be happy or not, but it does not matter._ _I have decided._

 _For the first time in many years I have decided to myself. I do not want to bore you, but because of the fact that I still consider you as a friend..._

 _I want to finally relax. Fall asleep and dream without nightmares._

 _And the only way for that to happen is what has probably already come to your mind._

 _It's because of this that I asked those questions earlier._

 _Unfortunately, I have to deal with it myself._

 _At the moment, I have probably lost part of me in your eyes. I have become unworthy, but it is all the same to me._

 _Believe me that I am no longer able to carry this huge burden alone. And no one can help me, no one is not strong enough, brave enough. You appreciate the courage, though sometimes it hides behind stupidity, which you cannot stand to be par with the lack of good manners._

 _I guess I'm stupid, silly because I still have hope. I don't know what I'm even hoping for._

 _No, I do not ask you for your understanding, because I am far from the notion of the true motives of their conduct._

 _I might be able to..._

 **HL / WG - SH / JW**

Hannibal looked at the pages torn from his notebook filled with hasty, not entirely clear, very fine handwriting. He had found them quite recently while cleaning his office.

Will Graham's empathy was still surprising. He had expected something else. Surely rage, anger. He had yet to experience direct aggression from the former agent, but he might still live to see this.

The question, or rather the request addressed directly to the Ripper almost materially tickled his ego and gave him food for thought. He had never thought about this before.

He read the letter again and smiled. Even now, the empath had not let him grow bored and he was immensely grateful for it.

He poured a drink into a glass and sat down beside the lit fireplace, fantasizing about Will Graham's last moments.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** *Medical society invented for this story.

 **HL/WG - SH/JW**

John grimaced, sensing that nothing was going to happen this evening, neither easily nor pleasantly. He had to provoke some discussion before Sherlock himself found out about the reason for his unusual behaviour. So far nothing sowed that the detective had something to say, but then again they did not see each other very often. On the other hand, it was never possible to be sure. It appeared that Sherlock often followed him unnoticed. Most of John's free time was used to prepare the basement for use, which allowed him to not think about the rest. He worked at the clinic, and also helped Mrs. Hudson as usual.

As far as the basement was concerned, of course, Mycroft had sent the entire crew to properly prepare it, but it was John who was managing their work, with minor corrections on Mrs. Hudson's side. The unfriendly, raw space was quickly adapted to a pretty neat and cosy apartment. He hoped Will would like it.

He knew well how exile could hurt. Especially after what had happened to the former FBI agent.

The unexplained case provided by Lestrade finally drew Sherlock in so much that he spent all his days in St. Bartholomew's lab, tirelessly examining the old evidence. What was strange is that he clearly did not want John's company and help.

John was not surprised at this, there were many similar cases that did not require his presence. He knew that if needed, the detective would immediately summon him.

Now, however, he went upstairs, feeling a little hesitant, but determined to confront Sherlock.

"John, finally. I thought you had collapsed downstairs."

John did not have time to answer when he was unceremoniously pushed to a closed door and kissed greedily. It surprised him, but he did not fight when his hands were pinned above his head. He allowed Sherlock to do as he pleased. Soon they reluctantly stepped aside to take in air, but they were still merely millimetres apart.

John bit his detective's bottom lip, staring into his eyes. He smiled when the partner let go of his wrists, manipulated the jeans and quickly folded his clothes. Priorities.

"We have to talk."

"I know, but this is better. Later." Sherlock ground his hips firmly against John's. They both sighed, both feeling a wave of pleasure.

The detective's hand was between them. John wanted to say something, but all the words were lost in another kiss. Indeed, it could wait. He gasped, feeling Sherlock's long, clever fingers wrap around his member. Looking into his eyes, the detective started cautiously and slowly moving his hand as if it was an instrument. At the same time, he drank from John's lips a number of murmurs, sighs and soft moans of pleasure.

Damn Sherlock Holmes.

"You're a bastard," John murmured, biting his partner's ear.

"I know," Sherlock replied, busy recording John's reactions to his touch. "I want to check something."

They would not talk today. John had to agree with the fact that several experiments closely linked to the reactions of their bodies undergoing various sensory stimulation were more interesting ways to spend an evening than a tiring conversation on a non-essential topic.

Practically without stopping to kiss and bite the discovered pieces of skin, they took off their clothes. This time, mutual desire and lust took over their cautiousness. Mrs. Hudson was out playing bridge till late evening.

John pulled Sherlock into another kiss. This was one aspect of being with someone you never had enough of. He loved to study his partner's body with sense of touch. To irritate and caress with his palms, his fingers, his whole body. From what he could see, it wasn't just him. They could not peel themselves away from each other. Perhaps it was related to the fact that-

"Shut up John, stop thinking about it. I can't concentrate."

If he could, he would have snorted. At the moment he gave a quiet cry as the genius pulled him unceremoniously onto the couch. This bastard must have had planned and prepared everything, because the table was already pushed a safe distance away.

But why?

Sherlock sent him a harsh, intense look that said he was indeed going to lose his ability to reason.

He was not so gently pushed to the end of the couch, Sherlock kneeling between his spread legs. He moved his hands over his chest, abdomen and thighs, deliberately avoiding the demanding attention his penis needed. Behind the hands followed lips and a tongue. Delicate, electrifying brushes made John yearn for more. He needed more friction, but could not move his hips.

John knew that it was part of Sherlock's foreplay, but if he wasn't going to let John do what he needed to, someone was going to die tonight.

"Growing lust and the inability to fulfil your desires make you just a little sadistic, John. Interesting, very interesting."

John just gasped.

 _You'll get your payback, you impossible, amazing-_

The brilliant bastard leaned forward with a knowing look on his face and slowly but relentlessly licked the inner side of John's thighs. For a few seconds, he hesitated, his tongue sliding across the dripping member, caressing his swollen head. Sherlock stopped suddenly and John shuddered.

Finally, the lips returned to the head slowly seeping come, engulfing it in his mouth. Sherlock gave John what he wanted, but not quite. He concentrated on bringing him to the edge with caresses from his mouth and hands. He knew well where and how to touch him. He had even more fun than John doing this.

With a mischievous facial expression, the detective again licked the head from the tip, sucking it briefly. He looked up, watching his partner who was letting out an inaudible string of expletives.

Without a word, Sherlock took him in his arms and moved to the bedroom. John weighed a lot, but this time Sherlock could not, didn't want to, let John out of his arms. Giggling like little boys, they finally fell onto their bed. They rubbed their bodies together, turning over on the sheets and kissing.

Sherlock prepared John hastily. He smiled, watching his lover's impatience. Their lips met again, sharing warmth and one breath. John did not interrupt the kiss, sitting on Sherlock's lap. He found Sherlock's cock with his hand and grasped it. The detective took in John's face, staring intently, but did not notice anything disturbing. At the same moment, John lifted his hips. Gently and slowly until Sherlock's head swelled inside him, he slid down, allowing himself to stretch and fill with pleasure.

There were groans and cries and moans and they bit on salty skin and kissed, and kissed, and kissed. Sherlock moved faster. Embracing John close, he bit him in the hollow between his shoulder and neck.

" _My John."_

 **HL/WG - SH/JW**

He was not late for the conference, but even if he was, he would not have missed much. The lingering welcome speech was definitely too long, though coffee and snacks were provided.

The chairman caught him in the crowd and smiled. They did not know each other personally, but they respected each other through their publications. Hannibal slightly inclined his head, planning a conversation and perhaps a dinner invitation after the inauguration. He would have enough time to know what place to choose.

He did not intend to draw attention to himself, but since the airport, he had noticed two young men discreetly following him. They watched as if waiting for the right moment, trying not to disrupt the order of his day. The average person would probably not notice the tail, but someone had to be careful and hide in the light of day for him to not notice such a detail.

Looking around at the beautiful, historic hall of the _Royal Society of Psychiatrists and Psychologists*,_ filled with participants at the conference, he sensed someone else, this time an inconspicuous woman who was sitting nearby and playing her role well. Undoubtedly, she had a psychologist's degree among other valuable qualifications of a special agent.

Well, the welcome board of Mycroft Holmes.

He pretended not to notice it as the chairman approached him. They had a lovely conversation and soon the agents watching him knew where he was going to spend the rest of the afternoon.

The evening in the company of Professor McCarthy and some of his co-workers passed surprisingly well. The older man was a charming and extremely well educated interlocutor.

Even the disarming incident with agents following him did not ruin his good humour. On the contrary, the fact that they had needed his help made him smile when he thought about it.

 **HL/WG - SH/JW**

Mrs. Hudson entered the apartment with morning tea. John had taken that day off, and Sherlock had probably closed his secret investigation. The mess she found did not surprise her, but she was intrigued by the silence. The upstairs apartment sizzled with the life and varied sounds of two grown-up men of strong temperaments. She got used to it and she had to confess to herself that it was going to be hard for her to live with this silence.

When Sherlock wasn't there during those hellish, long months, his and John's apartment seemed half dead. And so did John. She was careful not to let him do anything foolish. For some time she saw that he had been carried away with the intention of escaping and finding another place, but his caring nature and the promise he had made to Sherlock had not allowed him to do so.

She had seen how much it cost him. She was not Sherlock Holmes' landlady for nothing. Her boys were in some respects as readable as an open book. They could have fooled themselves, but not her.

After the detective's return everything had gone back to normal, but not quite. John forgave Sherlock almost at the moment he saw him alive. He forgave immediately, after long discussions he understood his motives and purpose, but he did not forget. He couldn't.

She often heard the effects of the nightmares of both of them. The best, most effective relief of their anxiety was Sherlock's violin. She smiled. Nothing worked better. Well, maybe almost nothing. She _knew_ that the second bedroom was going to be superfluous the moment Sherlock introduced her to John. She could recognize the same confusion that she had seen before in a young man who, without expecting much in turn, had freed her from the nightmare that had taken her life.

Unable to stop her own curiosity, she stepped on the toes of Sherlock's open bedroom. She smiled at her thoughts, hearing John's quiet snores.

Sherlock had woken up recently and didn't notice her. All his attention was focused on John, who slept exceptionally calmly beside him. The detective's slender fingers slowly moved across his partner's skin, barely touching it. With extreme caution, many of the scars that covered his body were touched. She heard Sherlock's whispered words of praise and devotion. Not wanting to disrupt such an intimate moment, she decided to retreat.

At that moment she heard a snort.

"Mrs. Hudson, using morning tea is an excuse to spy on us? How good that you do not work for Mycroft."

The woman smiled, blushing slightly. Sherlock's voice did not indicate any irritation. Rather, he was amused. She waved at a handful of various substances scattered across the kitchen counters and left the apartment, quietly closing the door behind her.

John opened his eyelids.

"Did she see us?"

Sherlock shook his head and, after a moment of deliberation, began peppering the exposed fragments of John's skin with small kisses, causing him to giggle.

"My turn."

Sherlock swallowed, trying to predict what John was going to do. He was going to find out soon enough, but the wait itself was a pleasant thrill. For a moment they kissed. This time they were doing it almost lazily. Every time, however, Sherlock's raging thoughts slowed down, concentrating on completely new information. John's hands slowly and systematically massaged, caressed his body. With a grin, he teased him with his fingers, tickling and at the same time not going below the waist. Sherlock wanted, but did not get. John liked to torment him in the best and worst way possible. He blew, kissed, and licked, moving into the areas that demanded more attention.

Wandering along Sherlock's thighs, squeezing them rubbing against his lover's body. When he finally bent down and his mouth closed on Sherlock, the detective sighed deeply, and in his mind a black hole exploded, absorbing nothing and everything. The thrilling sensation of his nerve endings was almost overwhelming. Intense body sensations, especially on his body, could completely overpower him, but he trusted John. His beloved partner often gave him unmistakable proof of his skills when they had drifted away in similar circumstances months earlier. John's mouth was absolutely perfect. He tried to remember this moment so that he could return to this later in his mind palace.

"Don't think, Sherlock. I will catch you."

John's mouth barely rubbed against his manhood just to ensure that it was only the beginning. Touching his lips, the tip of his tongue against the sensitive skin was very pleasing to Sherlock's senses, and his throat broke out from time to time with a choked murmur as he lay with his eyes closed.

John's hands moved across his torso, his stomach to rest on his thighs. He spread them, massaging the trembling muscles. Sherlock's fingers clamped on the sheets, but soon found themselves in his partner's hair. It did not bother John, who was enjoying the reactions of the other man.

Sherlock Holmes did not have too many opportunities to explore the pleasures of carnal communion. Or, to put it another way - he had not experimented with the right person. With John everything was a whole new experience.

John did not expect anything from him. Never. It was surprising, unusual. Sometimes he let himself be persuaded, but most often he led the detective to a state where Sherlock turned into a very satisfied jelly on the border of sleep.

Now it was similar. When John finally found himself in his arms, the detective breathed in the familiar scent of John's skin.

John found an effective way to fight his chronic insomnia for years, and with all ruthlessness, he used this knowledge deliberately. And it was not even about anal sex or oral sex. These were very pleasant pretexts for proximity, physical contact, which from the moment he returned, he needed like air to live. He observed that John slept much better and deeper, feeling his presence right beside him.

In turn, he reacted with greater patience to the irritating, irrelevant questions of Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade.

 **HL/WG - SH/JW**

Will looked at his interlocutor, surprised. He didn't think he would get his life back so quickly. No. He was going to begin new chapter with his family. Until now, he didn't understand how this had happened, but he didn't question Mycroft Holmes' incoherent story and DNA research findings.

Mycroft Holmes, the oldest, most influential of his half-brothers, was a very interesting man. Cool, elegant and emotionally composed, he was so like Hannibal, but not quite.

"I do not think that's a good idea..."

"Will, you can go and see the apartment today. Sherlock would never admit it, but he is intrigued by you and wants to meet you," said Mycroft, enjoying the rare afternoon tea. "He wants to get you out of my influence. He was always the jealous and possessive one."

Among his students were uncontrollable stories about the brilliant Holmes circulating, among which was a man who pointed to him as an intractable burglar and a murderer.

One look at him was enough to make such a statement.

A few hours later, standing by the townhouse on Baker Street, Will felt anxious that he would be treated similarly. Nobody in the right mind would not take anyone under their roof without checking. Especially using such skills and knowing where he had been last time.

The mysterious smile on Mycroft's face gave him much to think about.

"Oh, come in, come in." The door opened to a small and cheerful old lady. Mrs. Hudson. "They are waiting for you upstairs."

 **HL/WG - SH/JW**


End file.
